


Knights consort

by Whit Merule (whit_merule)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Australian fantasy, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, M/M, Needs More Dinosaurs!, Politics, Reunions, Worldbuilding, mentioned Wincestiel, no seriously
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-16
Updated: 2017-11-16
Packaged: 2019-02-01 02:42:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 17,209
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12695496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whit_merule/pseuds/Whit%20Merule
Summary: The Winchesters always complicate things. Feelings and loyalties in particular. Finding yourself fighting against them in a civil war doesn't help.A year after the end of the fighting Castiel is no longer a knight. He drifts though life, purposeless and ashamed, not even knowing whether Dean and Sam are still alive. Until Dean turns up, cocky as ever and even more prosperous, with an offer from the Princess of the land.And perhaps the fighting isn't over yet after all...





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Take one medieval-style fantasy world set in an Australian landscape where everyone has some kind of magic. Add socially approved polyamory and stir well. Hm. What's it missing? Oh yes. Dinosaurs.
> 
> ... okay, technically no dinosaurs yet. Just pterosaurs and extinct mammalian megafauna. But if I do get around to writing the sequel, we'll have the dinosaurs. Lucifer will see to that.
> 
> Also all the animals mentioned are/were real, including the sprinting terrestrial crocodile. Australia actually used to be scarier than it is now. If you're reading this on a computer you can mouse over any underlined text for notes.

_Then_

“Technically,” said Castiel, squinting at the shapes divebombing them, “they’re [tupuxuara, not pterodactyls](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tupuxuara).”

“Look, angel,” said Dean, very calmly. “They’re _giant flying reptiles_ with beaks the size of my body. I’ll call them what the hell I want. Can we just get the hell out of here?”

“If you hadn’t tried to escape my lawful custody,” frowned Castiel, “I would not have been obliged to tie our wrists together, and I would have been much better equipped to counter an aerial threat, _Winchester_.”

“If you hadn’t pissed me off, I wouldn’t have tried to escape!”

“That is an extremely petty reason for engaging in dishonourable behaviour.”

“Seriously? You wanna talk dishonour, angel? You wanna go there?”

It was lucky for everybody, really, that at this particular moment—as a leathery body folded itself into four-score pound weight behind a sharp beak and fell straight down toward them, and another swooped in from the front with jaws gaping at their faces—that, on some brotherly instinct, Dean Winchester pushed Castiel down into the spinifex grass, just as the second Winchester turned up.

There was no snarl, no threat. Sam just barrelled over their heads in a whirl of fur and teeth, and at least one of the animals vanished in a squawk of indignant pain.

Sam’s arrival changed everything, of course. Ten minutes later Castiel was to change from captor to captive. Before the war was over he was to fight at their side and against them, to plead for their lives and restrain their own blades with a touch, to hold them as they broke and shuddered in grief and rage and passion. He would betray his own loyalties in ways great and small to save them; he would be harrowed and reworked to the depths of his soul.

And he’d never felt so alive in all his years.


	2. Chapter 2

_Now_

 

There were three of them.

Or perhaps there were four—there _should_ be a fourth—but the watcher could barely sense that person, some shadowy elusive shape on the edges of what it could see of the world.

These three, though, they stood out bright and clear, rocks in the current of destiny. Bring them together and the river’s course would change. Everything would change. But even the watcher, who had spent its whole existence studying the currents of this particular river, could not say what would come of it.

One of them, he was clearer to the watcher’s sight than the others. The magic in his blood was more closely aligned to the watcher’s own essence. It focussed its attention there, and sank into observation.

 

* * *

 

Castiel had imagined meeting Dean again. He had planned what to say over and over. He dreamed it, tossing and turning in the night, distracted by the press and give of Dean’s body and the sharp warm brightness of his grin. He’d had plans, he’d had daydreams, he’d had nightmares—bright and vivid and somehow more real than the dim orderly planes of his everyday life.

So of course, when he finally saw Dean again, what he actually did was injure himself.

It was a stack of [girdle books](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Girdle_book) and a glass astrolabe that he was balancing, as he rounded a corner in the library. His head was full of thoughts of rebinding and re-tooling of leather, and he ignored the figure leaning against a lectern, even when it pointedly cleared its throat, because he was a custodian not a servant and _two lengths of third grade by ten inches, seven of first by ten and one by twelve, chisels two through five_ and—

“Hey, where does a guy have to look to find a copy of Hericlave around here anyway?”

—and Castiel found himself looking up into a familiar cocky grin, and his world went very quiet, and his fist clenched hard on what turned out to be a fragile glass globe, and an armful of books went crashing to the ground.

He heard Dean swear, half laughing and half concerned, saw the sudden movement of his body and the flutter-thump of book pages in the library’s stillness. Castiel felt the firm press of well-remembered fingers around his wrist, turning his hand over—felt the hot bloom of pain and wetness welling up in his hand, smelled the blood rising incongruous over leather and dust. He saw the bright, exasperated green of Dean’s eyes flickering up to him then down to his maimed palm, the shake of a head, the curve of grimy ingrained orange dust above the line of his collar from days, weeks of travel. He saw, he heard, he smelled, he felt, and it was all so far away. As if the world was very cold.

“Seriously?” he heard, then “I mean I know I’m handsome but,” then “holy shit,” and “c’mon, Cas, who does—okay, hold on, gimme that—you _dumbarse_ , you’ve got, okay, look, I need some water here, I gotta get this glass out before I can, Cas. _Cas_.” And a pinch and a tug on his ear—fingers. “Come on, man, where’d’you keep water in this place? Hey. Hey, look at me, what’s the— _Cas_.”

What Castiel did, when he saw Dean Winchester again, was drop a stack of books and crush a glass astrolabe in the palm of his hand.

And that was ridiculous, he thought in some distant corner of his mind, while he watched Dean’s lips move and his forehead crease and his fingers trace the shards of glass jutting from Castiel’s ragged palm, because there were so many more important things to do. Things to—things to _say._

At which point Castiel shoved this man up against a locked cabinet so hard that it rattled, balled his fists in his filthy riding coat, and shook him hard.

“You _insufferable_ ,” he spat out, and it took him a moment to find the next word, because there were so many raining down around him and Castiel’s right hand was screaming signals at him that he wasn’t hearing. “You insufferable—callous, careless—brilliant—how _dare_ you, not a word, you didn’t _write_ , are you—” and Dean’s eyes were wide and green and startled, and “you’re here, you’re _here_ , Dean, you’re—you’re _alive_.”

And that one word, that one admission of everything he’d been battling so hard not to dread for so long, that was what came juddering out between useless breaths and broke him, so that even as his body pinned Dean’s against old wood, Dean could clutch at him and say, “Hey,” and “hey” again, and “the hell, Cas, your _hand_ ,” and ease Castiel back and unclench his fingers and pour something decidedly alcoholic over Castiel’s messy palm from the leather flask at his belt, sluicing away the blood.

“You can’t do that in here,” said Castiel, scandalised, and Dean scowled at him with half an eye and said “Yeah, well, you shouldn’t be bleeding on the books, dimwit,” and tossed the flask aside so that its contents seeped out dark and messy onto the floor while Dean carefully picked broken glass from Castiel’s palm.

And then the pain came.

Castiel welcomed it, because it was easy and understandable. And although it was the dangerous kind, the kind that said he’d done some damage to his hand that shouldn’t heal, that didn’t matter. Because his hand was cradled in one of Dean’s, and Dean was growling reproaches at him and shaking his head and still almost laughing, and his other hand was picking out all the final shards and when he was done he would—

_there_

—Dean’s free hand closed over Castiel’s and the sweet power inside him surged through Castiel’s blood, sending it racing hot and live through his veins.

Every hair on Castiel’s skin, every downfeather in his wings, quivered and stood on end until he felt rough and charged all over. His cock stirred, though Castiel had never been sure whether that was because of Dean’s power or because it was _Dean_ ’s power, and when Castiel could focus Dean was smirking at him and looking very smug and still cradling Castiel’s hand between both of his.

“The hell did you survive without me, man?” he said.

Castiel narrowed his eyes and glared.

“You do realise that if my hands hadn’t been busy I would have punched you.”

And Dean tipped back his head and laughed, full and joyful.

Castiel gave up, and pinned him to the cabinet, and kissed him with everything he had.

“Oh _hell_ yes,” mumbled Dean indistinctly, cockiness dropping away in seconds under Castiel’s desperate grip.

It was sloppy and breathless, Castiel’s mouth slipping here and there, lips latching on this side of Dean’s mouth then the other then catching at his chin or his nose as they shoved against each other, as he tried to cover all of him and make sure that every inch was unharmed, was still there, was still _him_.

And it took him many breaths, many heartbeats, to realise that Dean was gasping and struggling back: that despite the smirks and the snatches of laughter, Dean’s fingers were locked tight in Castiel’s feathers and hair, Dean’s body was hot and real and vital and smelling of sweat and road, Dean’s chest was straining forward against him, Dean’s mouth couldn’t catch a breath between crushing kisses.

Dean was shaking.

Castiel said his name once, twice, feeling the shudder of real muscle and flesh under the press of his fingers. Somehow it grounded him, to name the man. Like an invocation that confirmed what it created.

Time spun off in its own direction, until he ran out of breath and came back to warm hands running up and down his spine.

Castiel’s nose was pressed in against Dean’s cheek, mouths barely apart, but what Castiel needed right now was the sensation of his own breath playing over Dean’s skin, using his own magic in its most visceral form to _feel_ the shape of Dean’s body and face.

“You’re alright.” Castiel swallowed. “You’re alright?”

Dean’s chuckle rumbled through Castiel’s body. “Well, some guy just smeared blood all over my face, but sure.” The shrug, the tone of innocence. “You know me, Cas. I’m always alright.”

“You’re filthy anyway.” Castiel pulled back, pulled his feelings back, and deliberately wiped his bloody hands on Dean’s shirt. “Also, you stink.”

“Aw, missed you too, feathers.” Dean shifted his grip with Castiel’s movement, loosened it but didn’t let go: leaned back against the cabinet with his hands on Castiel’s ribs, easy and relaxed. His grin was wide and full of life, the same grin that Castiel had never had any defence against. “Who knew you could look so civilised and nerdy?”

“Why are you here.”

“Can’t a guy drop by for a drink with an old buddy?”

“It’s a three-week journey through dangerous terrain and abandoned territories, without the benefit of passable roads. I didn’t even know whether you—how have you been, Dean? You and Sam.”

Dean shrugged, still grinning but with a bashful edge creeping in. “Oh, he’s fine. Looming as ever, you know. It’s actually. Kinda about that.”

Castiel cleared his throat and his voice. Acerbic fondness came to him easily like a half-forgotten reflex, although his heart still skipped and lurched. “You came all this way because Sam is still tall?”

Dean rolled his eyes, but he wasn’t quite looking at Castiel now. He was fidgeting with the collar of Castiel’s robe, folding it back into place, frowning at it. “I’m actually, uh. Here officially.” A pause. “As an ambassador.”

“Ambassador.” It occurred to Castiel that he didn’t even know where Dean lived these days, let alone which lady he served since the wars. “From whom?”

“High up as it goes. Her royal and sovereign highness.” There was a slice of a grin, half smugness and half mockery. “I got a _retinue_ , Cas.”

Castiel blinked at him, and blinked again. He realised, suddenly and bizarrely, that he had a very important man pressed up against a bookshelf, and his hands jumped away from Dean as if he’d turned to fire.

“The _Princess_?”

Dean gave a little bow and a flourish, and crouched down to gather up the books. It let him duck his head, avoid Castiel’s eye. “Yeah, so. I sorta work for her now. Like, directly for her. Sam too.”

The flex of Dean’s legs made the straps of the dagger scabbard on his thigh dig in against the linen of his trousers, bunching the muscles below in tempting relief. Castiel had always found that damned scabbard frustrating and distracting. It made him perverse, determined not to let Dean off easily or help him tidy up; and he arched a sarcastic eyebrow, even if Dean was refusing to look at him.

“Congratulations?”

“Kind of a brat, actually.” A trace of a smirk again, and Dean’s hands were very busy, and the tips of his ears were pink. “I mean, obviously I can’t tell you before it comes out in the official audience tomorrow, but.” A glance up and down, too quick to really make eye contact. “I’m kinda hoping you’ll… say yes?”

The library’s silence crept in on them from the sides. Castiel became aware that one of the orderlies was hovering at a discreet distance behind him, knowing better than to intrude but obviously itching to slap Dean’s dirty rough hands away and take over the job.

Castiel tilted his head. Some kind of an appointment, presumably. At the capital or at Dean’s recommendation, because he only got bashful when it was personal.

Then Castiel reached a decision. He crouched down and helped Dean stack and re-order the books, gathering up the glass and filigree of the broken astrolabe.

“Have you been shown to your quarters yet?”

“Lot of fancy bullshit.”

“I should have thought you’d be accustomed to ‘fancy bullshit’ now.”

Dean shrugged. “Yeah, well. You know me.”

“Yes.”

And he did. He knew. Dean would scoff about it, and pretend to be too manly for luxuries, to cover up the conviction that he didn’t deserve them and, even more, the childish delight that he’d take in them at the same time.

He watched Dean’s profile, the fall of sandy lashes against skin whose freckles were almost invisible in this light, the delicate curl of his earlobe which seemed suddenly, irresistibly, made for kissing.

“You would be quite welcome, you know, to come with me to my room,” he said quietly, and heard his own voice deepen. “To bathe and… freshen up.”

Dean looked up sharply. His eyes gleamed, and the tip of his tongue darted out over his lips.

But: “Room, singular?”

Castiel met his eyes, tired and wry. “I’m not as important as you are, ambassador.”

And suddenly Dean smirked, and waggled his eyebrows. “Yeah? Wanna bet?”

Castiel huffed exasperation and even in the same moment he couldn’t help but lean in and kiss him again, gratitude and love. Dean’s mouth parted easily under his, and oh yes, Castiel remembered this. Just how to take him apart with a few easy touches. This time it wasn’t desperate: it was lush and it carried intent. Carried promise.

Only then Dean sighed and rested his forehead against Castiel’s, nose nestled in alongside Castiel’s own, lips a breath apart.

“Not that it wouldn’t be awesome to, uh. ‘Visit your room’.” The smirk pressed his cheek in against Castiel’s. “But I really... probably not a good idea. Not until it’s all decided.”

Castiel drew back to look at him quizzically, a little sceptically, and Dean shrugged.

“Influencing you and all that.”

Because of course he had to needle Castiel’s curiosity as much as he could.

Dean pulled a face. “Don’t look at me like that, man, or I’ll slip up and _tell_ you.”

For a moment Castiel was about to press, to follow up on the implicit promise in Dean’s eyes that said he only needed a little persuasion and Castiel could command him. But that belonged to their friendship, when it had been only them, one man and another. And Dean wasn’t only his now. If he ever had been.

He hesitated, and dropped his eyes.

“If you think it’s wisest.”

Dean squeezed his hand and the moment broke into casual relief. Then Dean was turning to the orderly who was hovering nearby, thanking her by name, apologising for the mess, turning on the charm. And in a very few minutes Castiel was alone again, in a library that seemed even more quiet and drab than before.

 

* * *

 

It wasn’t until two hours later, when Castiel emerged from the library, that he heard the news setting the castle abuzz. There was indeed an ambassador arrived from the capital—and that ambassador was the Princess’s new Knight Consort.


	3. Chapter 3

The hall was crowded, and the meal was a long and clattering torture for Castiel.

People always flocked to the communal meal when there was any new subject for eyes and tongues. And the sovereign’s Knight Consort—let alone one with Dean’s looks and charm—was delicious matter for gossip indeed. As the evening progressed, the snatches of conversation that Castiel caught in the hubbub became increasingly lewd—increasingly envious of the lucky princess—increasingly detailed.

Castiel’s head began to ache.

Envy. Yes, perhaps he could admit to envy.

He ate little: chin on hand, surrounded by strangers and by people who might just as well be, and watched the high table. He sat too far away, these days, for any details of face and expression. Still, it was enough to see (to feel) the width of Dean’s grin, the easy roll of his muscles when he reached for a plate, the way he drew people near him into his orbit and warmed them. Even the dour Duchess Raphael to his left was a little more relaxed in her manner than usual—readier to echo his gestures, to respond to the tone and the rhythm of his words so that Castiel almost felt he could hear the sounds of it himself. Dean had excellent formal manners, when he chose to use them, but more often he was like this: charming people out of their own formalities and into something that made them feel special.

Castiel had felt that draw himself from the first, had been helpless against it. No matter what they had gone through together, how many times they had saved each other’s lives or how passionately they might kiss, he knew quite well that there was no reason to think that Dean’s affection for him had half the depth of Castiel’s own feelings. Dean was, after all, a passionate man; and wartime emotions burned hot.

Castiel ached for that voice, for those hands. He thought from time to time of cheating, of curling the currents of the air in that room to carry the trace of Dean’s words to his own ears. But that would be dishonest. And it would not ease his loneliness.

He watched Virgil, instead. The Duchess’ own Knight Consort stood behind her chair, hand on her shoulder in the traditional stance. His dark eyes scanned the hall: not constantly, but regularly, even while he leaned down to take part in the conversation or ate from his own plate on the pedestal beside him. It was the look of long practice: of the kind of man who had only to scan a room to be absolutely sure that he had its measure. Castiel could glance at speed through the pages of a book and know that his eyes would catch on anything he needed. Sam, he remembered (and the memories were raw today) could read the land with the same casual ease, making meaning out of scribbles in the sand or the pattern of birdsong in the canopy. Virgil, after all these years, must be able to pick up on something very similar without having to think about it: odd patterns in the random movements of bodies through the hall, perhaps, nervous fidgeting or stiffness, unusual behaviour or expressions, anything that might herald a threat to his charge.

Dean would have to learn that skill too. That, and many others. Not least patience— _kind of a brat_ , Castiel thought—but he would be to her everything that Virgil was to Raphael. Confidant, advisor, her constant and closest companion. Most probably her lover and the father of her heirs.

 _He is not yours_ , Castiel told himself sternly. _He never could have been yours_.

The Princess would have everything of Dean: time, devotion, fealty, all that deep love within him focussed on one person.

Little wonder Dean had thought it inappropriate to accept Castiel’s advances this afternoon, while Castiel was sworn to another liege lady.

And all of this would have been much easier if only Dean hadn’t kept _looking_ at him.

The first couple of times, Dean looked away at once, as if he were embarrassed to be caught looking. But then there were a couple of sheepish half-grins—a wink or a faint smirk—a slightly warmer smile—a few moments with no particular expression at all, just eyes meeting like Dean was checking he was still there—stealthy eyerolls or exasperation like he was inviting Castiel to share his irritation at whatever was being discussed up there—and then finally, as the evening wore into night and the plates began to be cleared, looks that spoke more of weariness, of softness, of some sort of... well, as if he were glad to see Castiel still there. Still with him.

And so of course Castiel could not leave.

He stayed, as conversation flagged and people began to leave. He stayed, as the final formal cup was brought to be shared at the high table. He stayed as the after-servants came to busy themselves in tidying the hall and give pointed looks to stragglers, and the dogs came in with them to nose under the tables and lick hopefully at his hands. And he stayed until the Duchess rose, and the others at the high table rose with her, and she clasped Dean’s wrist formally and said something to him that must have been a parting.

Then, and only then, did Castiel push himself back and rise from his place, shaking the stiffness from his arms and wings as he made for a side door and safety.

And of course, just before he slipped through it into the cool quiet of the corridor beyond, there came rapid footsteps behind him and a half-breathless “Hey, Cas. Hold on.”

Castiel paused, with his hand spread on the dark old redwood of the door frame, and didn’t look around.

“Dean.”

“You, uh.” Dean jolted to a stop just behind his shoulder, suddenly warm and _there_ and making the air swirl around Castiel in agitated clouds of scent and promise and thought and _Dean_ , and Castiel carefully closed down those parts of his mind that were sensitive to such things because his mundane senses were quite bothered enough, thank you.

“You’re leaving?”

“I understand that most people do, at the end of a meal.”

“No, I mean—”

Dean’s fingers caught at Castiel’s sleeve, but his voice faltered into uncertainty. Castiel looked around, and met his eyes.

Dean was flushed, halfway between a grin and embarrassment, shifting with restless energy. But as he saw Castiel’s face he stilled, and something in him eased. Then his smile was real. “You haven’t changed.”

Castiel cocked an eyebrow. He had, of course, in ways that Dean couldn’t know; but he could still do this, could still play the dry sardonic second man to Dean’s brash buoyancy. Manner maketh man, after all, and man maketh his manner, which is largely a matter of habit.

“Well, they did strip me of my knighthood.”

Dean’s jaw slackened, and his eyes fixed harder on Castiel, a silent _you’re joking right_. Then, as Castiel remained impassive, his eyes narrowed and shifted in that rapid flicker of emotions that he never could hide, indignation to fury to a very gratifying protectiveness, then into something like speculation.

“How bad?” he settled on at last, curt but considering.

“I was not quite tried as a wartime traitor,” drawled Castiel, “but given certain of my… choices… her grace decided that my services were surplus to requirements.”

This time it was just anger, pure and hot, lighting Dean’s eyes and tightening his jaw. His fingers went from plucking at Castiel’s sleeve to curling around his wrist, almost too firm, thumb and fingers pressing hard into the soft veins on the underside. Castiel did not pull away.

He expected a curse. But, at least here and now, Dean was too much of a professional for that. He let Castiel see his feelings in his eyes, but all he said was: “Well, hell. That’s going to make things more interesting.”

“Interesting,” echoed Castiel, with the flat inflection of _you still haven’t told me what’s going on_.

Dean’s grin was a flash, bright and sharp. “Complicated,” he said. “Or hey, maybe simpler. See you tomorrow at the audience, angel.”

So it would be an open audience, then. Castiel let his exasperation show—more of it than he felt, a mask for his aching fondness and the wish that Dean would lean in closer, just a little closer—and then Dean did. He winked, bold and almost a joke. And he shoved forward to plant a smacking kiss on Castiel’s cheek—almost a pantomime in the broadness of the gesture. Almost impersonal, because it was for an audience.

Castiel carefully folded back in all those parts of himself that had begun, tentatively, to reach outward.

“See you tomorrow,” he said carefully. And he turned and left, as Dean spun on his heel and made his cheerful way back to his hosts.

 

* * *

 

There was a dream that Castiel often dreamed.

He was standing or stumbling in a wide, flat riverbed, dust-dry and stony. The land was dry and barren, stretching dull and red and grey on all sides. There was no life except for the broad eternal pillars of the redgums that lined the banks, and the hardy thorny scrub that no years of drought could do away. It was a land in waiting, waiting for the rains that would pile up far and distant in the mountains and rush down all of a sudden, once every few years, in a devastating flash flood that would scourge away everything in its path.

The flood would change everything. It would be irresistible. It would tear trees from their roots and the land from its long dreary sleep, and in its wake there would be a hasty fervent spring of life, green and flowering things unfurling from the earth where they’d lain hidden so long they’d forgotten they existed.

Castiel knew this, in a distant theoretical way. He also knew that the brief spring would die away, that the land couldn’t sustain it by itself. New pools and rivers would dwindle to ponds and creeks, then to puddles and trickles. Ground plants would die off. Fish and frogs would die, or bury themselves in the mud as it hardened, to lie dormant another few years. Animals would move on. The gums would be left to themselves again, silver-streaked and impassive. He knew it, but he never saw it in the dream. It was just… there. Inevitable in the background.

Usually he stood in that wide dry channel, doing his best to drag his heavy feet. He had to keep moving, he knew, but he was thirsty and tired and his mouth was full of dust.

But tonight, for the first time, the flood came.

It swept him along and swept him away, and it shouted and roared and laughed in delight in his ears, and he never stood a chance. All the stillness and exhaustion of the dream disappeared into exhilaration and terror and the shock of tumbling water dragging him along at the speed of a gale, and Castiel was as helpless as before.


	4. Chapter 4

It was not an open audience.

Castiel frowned up at the closed doors, leading up to the top of the tower.

Of course, not all ambassadorial audiences were. Generally speaking, an ambassador would tip the ruling lady off as to the main import of their visit, and the lady or her advisors would decide upon the degree of secrecy required. It would not have been a surprise, except that Dean had, multiple times, hinted that Castiel would hear something important here.

The antechamber to the council courtyard was open and airy: great arched windows on all sides, with hardy bushes of wattle and grevillea clustered green and spiky at their feet. At this height, the wind rushed and tugged through the space, a refreshing coolness compared to the close heat of the lower levels of the tower. Symbolically, the open architecture represented transparency of government and a willingness to listen to counsel. Practically, it meant that it was impossible for any of the angelic half of the population to fly up to the council illicitly, without being seen by the guards in the antechamber.

Today, the antechamber was filled with milling people: gathering in knots of gossip and excitement, glancing at the spiral staircase in the centre of the space which led up to those closed doors. This was the first official visit from the capital since their duchy and most other dissenters had re-sworn their fealty, ending the civil war as they all fell into line one by one. It was a grand occasion, and an anxious one.

Apparently, however, it was not a public one.

Castiel would not, under ordinary circumstances, have turned up to stickybeak. He would have assumed that any important information would find its way to him in time, and he would have stayed in his own circle, away from the exhaustion that was other people. But here he was, without a second thought, because Dean had implied—

No. Not because of that.

Because Dean was the ambassador.

If Dean had said nothing to him, if Dean had never sought him out, still Castiel would have attended the audience to hear what he had to say. Because he needed to know, even if it had no effect on him at all.

Castiel turned away abruptly. And as he did, the door opened.

The Marshal stood at the top of the staircase, murmuring to one of the guards there. But at the same time her eyes scanned the chamber, and when they fell on Castiel she stopped.

Whatever she had been telling the guard to do, it was aborted with a quick word and a shake of the head. Then she beckoned to Castiel.

Well, then.

She waited for him, elegant in greys and muted reds, as he climbed the stair.

“My lady Anna.”

“Castiel,” she acknowledged. Her smile was faint and distant, as it always was: as if she were thinking of something else, something sad. “You’re wanted in the Council.”

He bowed, and stood aside for her to turn and lead the way, her wings folded neat and tight down her back.

The council was seated around the octagonal table in the centre of the courtyard, shielded from the wind by the audience stands that rose in imposing tiers around them. On the side facing the door sat Raphael, with Virgil at her side. Closest to Castiel, with his back to the door, sat Dean.

Far overhead, [an eagle floated](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Wedge-tailed_eagle): chestnut and black, the tail a sharp wedge against the coppery-pale sky. Castiel knew her, a little: the few miles around the vast subterranean complex of the city belonged to her and her mate, and would for years to come. She could see everything that was happening here, with eyes far better than his own. It made him feel oddly exposed, out under the vast bowl of the heavens—even though he knew, logically, that eagles were forbidden to those few who could borrow the eyes of animals.

The Marshal resumed her place beside the Treasurer; and Raphael’s dark, unimpressed gaze fell on Castiel.

“Your Grace,” he said, and bowed. “Lord consort. My lords and ladies.”

“This is the man?” his liege lady asked, with a faint sardonic emphasis on the first word.

Dean swivelled in his seat, elbow on the table. Castiel lifted an eyebrow at him minutely. Dean half winked, and turned back. As if this was a thing they were doing together.

“He is, your Grace.”

Raphael and Virgil exchanged a look. The old sense of his own failures itched under Castiel’s skin. Then Raphael waved at the bench. “Sit down, Castiel.”

Castiel took the nearest of the empty spaces around the table: the one at Dean’s side. Dean didn’t look at him again, but his shoe knocked once against the side of Castiel’s—welcome, or reassurance, or a tease. Castiel didn’t know.

“Well,” said Raphael. “Talentmaster lord Consort-elect. Say your piece.”

Consort-elect. So he had been chosen, but not yet sworn in. Strange; and stranger still that, under the circumstances, he should be sent away as ambassador instead of staying by the Princess’s side.

Dean rose, and nodded around him at the Council.

He spoke of the end of the civil war, of old ties and new, of the Princess’ love and esteem for the Duchess and her people. He named the date of her coming-of-age ceremony, at which he himself was to be sworn in to his new role. He spoke at length about the importance of solidarity now as they entered a difficult and unpredictable time together: of the various rebel factions that had fled into hiding, and he spoke the name of Lucifer.

Then he paused, and he looked around at the table, and he leaned forward with his fists on the table. There was a general rustle, and many of the others leaned forward too, like a half-intended echo of Dean’s own body language.

“But you? You know all that,” he said; and his voice deepened as if he were sharing a secret. “Probably could have said it all for me and not miss a beat. Important? Sure. But that’s not why it’s me who came.”

He dropped his eyes to the table for a moment, took a breath, looked back up, and met every eye in the circle in turn as he spoke the next.

“We know something about what Lucifer’s trying to do. And it ain’t pretty, ladies and lords. He’s trying to bring back the old monsters of legend. Not just the flying reptiles we saw in the last wars, but the thunder lizards with legs like tree trunks or heads like siege weapons. The bird-lizards ten times a man’s height, with clawed arms instead of wings and a muzzle full of teeth. _Those_ stories. And it looks like he might just be able to do it.”

There was silence for a moment: only the whistling of the wind, and the distant bellows of the [diprotodons in the fields below.](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Diprotodon)

“Impossible,” rumbled Uriel.

And Dean grinned, like he’d been waiting for that cue.

“Ain’t it just? That’s why it took us so long to work out all those nagging little clues we were getting from our auguries. Nothing made sense, y’know? Nothing that was _possible_. But Her Royal Highness is just madcap enough to figure out where to look. Stubborn enough to keep everyone at it, until we worked out the shape of what we were looking at.”

“If this is true,” said the Duchess. She sat back in her chair, one hand low on her pregnant belly. “This is the act of a madman. How can he hope for military advantage from monsters? He can’t possibly control them.”

Dean shrugged. “Maybe not. Maybe just enough would be enough. Maybe he doesn’t know yet.”

The Marshal shook her head. “No, it makes sense,” she said. “Chaos favours the weaker side, in a fight. And they would be striking from the shadows and from hiding.”

“Nobody ever called Lucifer sane,” Virgil pointed out, eyeing Dean with cold assessment. “And he’s still got all of his own following with him. Besides: if he does stir up chaos, any of the other rebels could jump in and take advantage.”

“So that’s point one,” said Dean brightly, over the words poised to tumble out of the mouths of many around the table. “And I can give you more details later of what we know, but point two is the reason I wanted this handsome devil to join us.” His hand clapped down on Castiel’s shoulder, warm and firm. “What we’ve got ahead of us—all of us—it might not be more dangerous than war outright, but it’s surely going to be less predictable. So the Princess is reviving an older tradition. I’m not going to be her only Knight Consort, you see. There’s going to be a Triad.” His fingers squeezed faintly, and Castiel felt his own clench on the edge of the table. “Three of us, working together, like in the old days. Complementary talents: defence, offence, and augury. Myself, the Shield—my brother, the Sword—and for Sight, well.”

Castiel’s ears were ringing. He felt very numb and far away.

“Your Grace,” said Dean, voice rising again into a more formal cadence. “I am come on behalf of my lady Her Royal Highness to sue for the hand and heart of your man, Talentmaster Castiel Miltonarum of the Blue Rock people. She asks that you consent to release him from your fealty and gift him to the Princess in love, to be bound to her as Knight Consort to serve as her Sight in perpetuity.”

The silence took them all, for one heavy minute. Dean let go Castiel’s shoulder, and resumed his seat. Then Raphael began to speak.

Castiel carefully unclenched his body and sat back on the bench, tilting his head up to look at the sky. The eagle was still there, sailing in her long lazy circles overhead.

 _What do they all think,_ Castiel wondered, with a detachment that he found oddly disconcerting, _of this life that I have made._ _That has been made for me_.

Because, after all, there were so very few moments at which he had really had a chance to steer it in another direction. Most of those he had only noticed after the fact. And they hadn’t gone well.

But how could he have acted otherwise? 

He had played at consort triads as a boy, of course. Probably all children had. He had even played the game with Sam and Dean often enough, when they had been staying in the same houses. They had dreamed of and acted out the stories of all the great Triads of legend, recited the sets of three-plus-one names that could never be separated in memory, names that were forever linked with aching devotion and noble adventure.

Another time, another world.

They had to be perfect. They were stories. They had been people once, and now they were… ideals. To teach children to strive. To teach them to long for perfect love, for a perfect oneness of heart.

And then children grew up.

Castiel made himself focus, almost as a mental exercise, on the words being spoken around him.

Politics was not his game—which made this suggestion all the more incongruous, though _Dean_ , Dean was the least political person he knew, but Dean bluffed his way through on charm and belligerence and on knowing so firmly that he was right that everybody else believed it of him but—there were undercurrents to what Raphael was saying, and it took all of Castiel’s concentration and everything he had learned to decipher the most simple layers.

He felt, instinctively, that Raphael must be telling Dean how unfit Castiel was for the position. And yet she was not: of course she wasn’t. She was felt herself sensible of the honour of the Princess’ proposal; she valued the time and consideration of the Knight Consort elect; she spoke of Castiel’s merits, but it became clear gradually that her praise was faint. Of course: she could not speak against one chosen by the Princess, and if Castiel were to end up gifted to the monarch—to be made by that gift one of the highest persons in the state—she could not openly undervalue his worth. Even if he deserved it.

But she suggested other possibilities.

Other knights, male or female. More experienced, more loyal. With different skill sets, different personality traits, steadier character, who might better fit a young and (though she did not say it out loud) headstrong sovereign. Whose bloodlines were better—whose skins were darker (if an angel of the original blood of this land were what was wanted)—who might better bind their states together. A more appropriate gift.

Uriel and Anna, on opposite sides of the table, shifted their weight and eyed each other off, with a vicious lack of expression.

Dean let her talk, leaning back in his chair, legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles, his face amiably neutral but his eyes sharp.

“I assure you that the Princess is very familiar with Castiel’s qualifications. Let me remind you all. He’s certified not just as a Master but a High Master of his Talent, so he’s got the scholarly cred there for theory and analysis. But he’s got the instincts too: I’ve seen him spin and stop a blow from behind in the heat of battle, with no time for thinking or casting. He’s an aeromancer, sure, so he’s qualified for Sight, but he’s a warrior too. Have you seen this guy fight? I’m not sure even I could take him down. As for his blood, an angel’s an angel. It doesn’t matter how many human ancestors he had: you know as well as I do that angel blood runs true, in him as in the Princess.” A flash of a grin, because there was no way to even allude to Castiel’s blood after _that_ without maligning the royal family. “And besides all that, I can attest to his personal qualities, and I promise that they’d suit our needs just fine.”

Virgil, the Knight Consort, sat forward and cleared his throat. His expression was heavy, almost sneering.

“Ability,” he said, “is easily come by. Fighting, augury. These are what you need. These, many people have.”

He looked around the circle. His gaze swept over Castiel like a dismissal.

“The most important quality in a Consort is trust. And trust requires obedience. Absolute obedience, without question, in a moment. This man came very close to being tried for treason. Is this what you want?”

Castiel _felt_ , without even needing to cast, the heating of the air around Dean, the way it was drawn into his lungs in preparation for combat. But before Dean could reply:

“Do we have other seers,” asked Isaac, “who could do the job?”

More names followed, in two or three different voices. Augurers, soothsayers, beastborrowers, diviners of various stamps: anybody who could fill the gap. Some names Castiel knew, some he didn’t. But then, rising over them all because lower and softer than all of them, the voice of the Marshal Anna, more than a little impatient:

“Our Princess has not asked for an augurer. There are many in the capital and in all the other duchies. She has asked for Castiel.”

Everybody fell silent. All eyes turned to her.

“Well, Commander?” asked the Duchess.

Anna closed her eyes for a moment. Then she looked at Castiel, and back at the Duchess, and she said: “Obedience is important. It is important in a soldier. But a Knight Consort, as you well know, sir,” (to Virgil) “is nothing of the sort. I would not trust a person in such a position who could entirely contain their own judgement and submit it to the instructions of their superior.”

She almost spat that out; and then, drawing herself back into line, spread her fingers out on the wood of the table and spoke directly to Dean.

“I have known Castiel a long time. He is… a good man. But if he has a flaw I would have said, until lately, that it erred on the side of obedience, not of rebellion.”

Dean cocked an eyebrow at her: half irritation, half flirt. “This isn’t about rewarding merit, folks. I’m not asking you to tell me which of your people deserves this the most. It’s about fitting in with Sam and me, and the three of us fitting in with _her_. You know your job, Lord Consort, but ours won’t be the same. You’re one man: you have to be everything. Now, with three, we can have differences in what we think, in _how_ we think. We can balance each other out. It’s not just about Castiel’s Talent. The three of us, we already know how to work together. We can cover each other’s weak spots. There’s a trust there you can’t build or buy. Sure, we’ve got our differences, but at the core of it? Cas is a brother.” Castiel’s mouth went dry, as Dean dropped the sharp-edged humour in his tone and became, by degrees, quite serious. “More ways than one, actually: he was our nursemate. Fed at the same breast as me, like Sam after us. We’re bonded already, though our families went separate ways before the wars broke out. I’d rather trust my life and my honour to no other man.”

 _Honour_.

Castiel studied his hands where they lay clasped on the table. They were scarred, and not so strong as they had been before.

“Castiel?” said Raphael, at last. “Your thoughts? Your desires?”

And he knew the obvious thing to say.

But there was some strange deep anger rising inside of him, and he could not have said why. And even that made him ashamed, made him doubt himself. So he avoided Dean’s gaze and he spoke words by rote, of being honoured and of his friendship with Sam and Dean and his trust for their judgement, until the truth rose to choke him.

He could not say those flattering politic words and mean them. But he didn’t know what he _did_ mean, what he did want, so he lifted his head and rose to his feet and met the Duchess eye for eye, and dropped all that.

“Pardon, your Grace. I find I do not know how to reply. In word or choice. I request time to consider.”

He felt Dean shift next to him—felt, without needing to look, the stare on the side of his face. But strangely, for the first time in a very long time, he thought he saw a glimmer of approval in the Duchess’ eyes as she looked at him.

“Three days,” she said, “for you to decide your own mind on the matter. And three days for me to consult and consider, and then we will have done. You are dismissed.”

Castiel bowed, to her and then to the company. And then, because it _was_ necessary to acknowledge and thank the Princess by proxy for her offer, he turned to Dean and held out his hand.

Dean’s face was a tight mask.

He put his hand in Castiel’s and let it be kissed, but he would not meet Castiel’s eyes. Even though the skin was warm under Castiel’s lips, even though it shuddered a little at his touch, there was nothing in him of his earlier ease, still less of the eager passion that Castiel had glimpsed in the library. Dean was closed off now, hidden from him; and Castiel didn’t know exactly why, or how to get him back.

The anger welled hot inside him.

Had Dean really expected no hesitation? Did he think Castiel had just been waiting for Dean to snatch him up and bear him away in his own vivid torrent? Like before, like always, like—

Castiel turned, and walked past the door to the staircase, and spread his wings to fly.


	5. Chapter 5

The [magpies](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Australian_magpie) warbled their family anthems in the grasses and from low branches, and Castiel leaned his elbows on the wall of the kennel yards and didn’t listen to Balthazar.

He hadn’t seen Dean for the rest of the day, once the council was done. And he had been… watching for him, at least, though not exactly looking. He had wandered, strangely restless. Any necessary work that he had tried to settle to had seemed colourless, stagnant, and he could not persuade himself to keep at it. Dean’s infuriating face kept getting in his way, glowering and sulky or tempting Castiel with the ferocity of his charm. Dean intruded on Castiel’s life even when he wasn’t in front of him, when he refused to come near him. Just like he’d always done.

The next morning he’d had glimpses, here and there, always at a distance. Once or twice he thought he had caught Dean’s eye, but Dean had always turned his back, given his attention and his laughter back to somebody else, until Castiel had to fight down a very uncharacteristic urge to shake him and shout.

He had retreated to the library for an hour or two, before Balthazar had come to drag him out of it. Castiel had no desire to “dish the dirt” on Dean. He had no clear idea of what that dirt would be, in Balthazar’s opinion, other than that it would relate to sex. Balthazar already knew the broad outlines of his sexual history with Dean and Sam, and so Castiel reiterated it as prompted, in curt phrases or obedient sentences, which Balthazar obviously found unsatisfying.

And so his questions became more lewd and insinuating, and Castiel’s became more irritated and distracted.

The kennel yards were a welcome relief. Castiel let them in at the gate, because there had been two litters recently and the pups of both species were curious and eager for the companionship of people.

He crouched down, as one of the mothers of the crèche stalked closer to investigate them. Then the canine puppies came tumbling over, and their thylacoleo companion—barely out of the pouch, by the look of her—waddled warily after them.

He reached out and fondled the ears of all the hounds, let the puppies sniff his hands and play around him. Balthazar leaned back against the wall and watched and, for once, said nothing.

[Thylacoleos](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Thylacoleo) were marsupials. They had one or two pups at a time, and were not skilled at socialisation. Nor were they as intelligent as dogs, for all their cunning in hunt and battle. The only way to teach them to be companionable, or to follow instructions, was to raise them with dogs: with the descendants of those strange placental beasts who had arrived in this land with the conquerors. The people who had come in from the sea. The people with magic in their blood, with pale skin and no wings.

Castiel picked up the thylacoleo puppy. She curled up instinctively in his hands, hind paws reaching up behind her ears as if she were cradled in her mother’s pouch. He held her gently, ran his fingers over the striped hindquarters then up to rub her ears. Her deep amber-glass eyes blinked at him, then closed in happiness. Her stocky little jaws worked, as if she were thinking about milk.

Everybody was a half-breed, these days, one way or another.

The mother loped closer with the awkward sidelong gait of her kind, glared at Castiel fixedly, and let out a low coughing bark.

He put her baby down; and the puppy squeaked, and hopped over to her mother, and clambered up and into her pouch. The mother bent her head between her legs to nudge and lick, until only the baby’s muzzle and tail were hanging out. Then she sidled away along the fence. But five of the dogs lay down in the sun near them, and relaxed to sleep or play.

Castiel sighed, and ran his fingers through the belly fur of a half-snoozing yearling.

“Dean is… not good at knowing his own mind,” he said, without looking up. “I need him to be certain.”

Balthazar made a noise of derision. “He travelled two weeks to fetch you. Looks certain to me. Presumptuous uncouth western oaf that he is.”

“Yes, but certain of what? That I’m the right man for the job. Balthazar, he won’t even look at me.” Castiel sat back against the wall, and looked up at Balthazar. “I can’t go into this unless we are… unless this is equal.”

Balthazar arched an ironic eyebrow at him. “Oh, pet, you learn to live with that. Believe me.”

Castiel scowled. “It is too dangerous for both of us. For all four of us.”

Balthazar looked out at the tree line. There was something bitter and amused all at once in his face; but then, there usually was. It was just his way.

“You’ve been drifting for months, love,” he said, as if that made sense.

But then, maybe Castiel had.

The library wasn’t the refuge it had been before the wars, these days. Castiel had barely realised it until he had seen Dean again, like the shock of cold air setting cobwebs fluttering, but he was unhappy.

The quiet and order of the library stifled him, instead of satisfying. Its long narrow corridors, its cabinets of strange old objects and carefully preserved books, stirred a sort of restlessness. All through the fighting he had longed for it; but now it reminded him of his not-exactly-disgrace. He had struggled so hard, during those two years, to do what was right, when to other people it had seemed so very simple. And he missed, deeply missed, that one person who had challenged him and changed him the most. Of whom he hadn’t heard a word in the nine months since the war had ended.

He would do his tasks by rote, losing himself in memories of kisses trailing up Castiel’s thighs and a filthy, self-satisfied chuckle as Castiel’s hands knotted demandingly in his hair. Of Sam and Dean bickering over nothing while Castiel did his best to ignore them and his heart swelled to feel like a part of this even for a moment. Of Dean kneeling before him in formal submission and of vicious heated arguments over honour and betrayal. Dean’s love and his approval, always fleeting, always just beyond Castiel’s reach because Castiel always let him down and it was always, _always_ Dean who chose whether Castiel was worth anything or—

Running through mallee scrub, enemies behind and around them and death moments away, always moments away and never quite there. Dean’s breathless laughter in his ears and feet pounding in step together, the white-hot focussed flame of Sam’s anger as he tore his way through a mutual enemy, the sadness and determination in his eyes as he faced Castiel, Dean’s pleading oaths. Mouths and bodies and hands, two or three bodies pressed together, sweating and sticky with sand getting into every crevice but mostly just Dean, Dean, _Dean_ , as vivid and bright still in Castiel’s soul as if he’d been burned into his skin.

Memories of feeling like he was part of something. Feeling that bond, even if it were only a temporary illusion. Feeling the breath in his mouth and the sunlight in his eyes and the charge of blood under another man’s skin. Feeling alive.

Balthazar snapped his fingers in front of Castiel’s face. “Anybody in there, Cassie?”

“You think I shouldn’t go,” said Castiel, absent-minded.

He was filtering dried grass seeds through his fingers: picking them up and watching them fall. No particular intent behind it, not seeking anything firm. Just… habit.

Balthazar sighed noisily. His breath disturbed the fall of the grass seeds, and scattered them into nonsense.

“Castiel, I don’t know. You’d hate it in the capital, all those politics and no refinement at all. But the rest of it—that whole chivalry and devotion and do-as-she-would purpose—I’d’ve said that suits you to a tee. Only I can’t get a read on you lately, love. I don’t know what’s going on in that pretty little head.”

A flash of memory: the sharp taste of bile in his mouth and Anna’s hand on the back of his neck. _Soldier up, Castiel_.

Castiel carefully nudged a puppy out of the way. It decided he was boring and went to pounce on a littermate, leaving him to gather another handful of grassheads from a nearby tussock.

“Listen to me. When did you last _want_ something, Cassie? I don’t just mean a craving for a sandwich or wanting a nice lie-down. I mean something you just have to have, something you need to chase down and keep. Something for you.”

Castiel frowned at the distracting sprinkle of seeds.

“That’s selfishness.”

“So be bloody selfish! I want to see you _choose_ something for once, and not just go where other people put you.”

Balthazar hardly ever sounded earnest. It nagged at something inside Castiel.

He could take up the offer. But wouldn’t that be just more of the same—just walking down the path that other people made for him?

If he’d thought about it, this triad, this bond, it should have been exactly what he would have wished. If only he’d been still a child, and everything had been that glorious and that simple.

Castiel clenched his hand and the sharp seeds prickled at his skin.

There was too much to feel and it hurt—oh, it hurt. He could not be the man that fit that shape. He didn’t know what that shape was, what Dean wanted of him.

He dropped the seeds abruptly.

And something was wrong.

They fell wrong.

“Maybe this is just what you need. Or maybe you should just shag that barbarian and get it out of your system.”

“Shut up,” said Castiel.

“Don’t I always,” grumbled his friend, which was a blatant lie. But Castiel was staring at the pattern of the seeds where they lay around his feet. An alarm was beginning to flare in the back of his head, that niggling sense before conscious analysis that he knew he _couldn’t_ ignore.

He grabbed another handful and tossed it into the air, deliberately this time, concentrating on the idea of Dean, and of danger.

He watched it fall. And he saw. And suddenly all that heavy dragging inertia in his limbs burned itself away into ferocious purpose.

“Your sword,” he snapped, and launched himself into the air at a dead run.

He cast again and again as he flew, low and fast, focusing on nothing but the movement of the wind over his own feathers and what it could tell him. He spared barely a thought for navigation, narrowly missing collisions as he arrowed over the walls and shelters of the animal yards. Then the kitchen gardens, where the poultry scattered with indignant squawks into the cover of vegetable patches. And then over higher, more elegant walls, amongst the mottled silver spires of the eucalypts, where the ground was criss-crossed with formal plantings that parted and met again around the stairways leading up from the houses of gentry and nobles under the earth. He darted and dodged between the trees, ignoring the cries from around him, eyes scanning now as well as his other senses.

He was flying too fast, there was too much information for him to process, shouting into his hair and feathers and streaming over his skin every time he kinked and swerved: powerful, imprecise, overwhelming. But this way, surely yes, _yes_ this way, over here—

He banked and climbed, paused for a moment with wings arched at the top of a rise. Then he shouted a warning, and folded his wings into a plummet.

He saw Dean and Virgil walking together in the Duchess’ private gardens—easy, relaxed, unaware. He had an impression of Dean’s face turning up toward him, frowning and quizzical—still the hunter, still assessing the situation—while Virgil, with instincts firmly keyed to _defend_ instead of having to make that choice, launched himself in Dean’s direction. But Castiel couldn’t see the danger. He could see just where it must be, but—

He couldn’t _see_ it. Yes. Sight, that was the problem.

Because there it was, the shape, the space that the air curled around, clear and precise as breathing in a darkened room. And if only Castiel could focus well enough at this speed—

Virgil’s mind was narrow. He liked Castiel little and trusted him less, but when it came to this his instincts were sound. He tackled Dean and knocked him behind a shrub border, and a knife sliced through the air and lodged in the meat of Virgil’s own shoulder.

The wrist of Castiel’s left wing collided with an invisible target and he crashed to the ground. Pain rang through his body, but there was no break: a wing folded like that, the full weight of it was gathered behind the leading edge like a bunched fist. His only concern was for the twisting, struggling body beneath him. There were gasps of pain from an unseen throat, gurgling breaths like he’d damaged something essential. Castiel grabbed, feeling out the body, trying to pin it, to find it so that he could be sure he was on top of it. Then he felt the hot slash of another blade across the meat of his thigh, and he hissed, and closed his eyes so that he could not see the nothingness he was pinning down.

That worked.

With his eyes closed, he _knew_ where he was, knew the shape of the body between his knees. He could feel the air parting around another desperate drive of the arm that held the knife—caught the wrist without thinking, bent and broke it—heard the broken sound of pain and closed his fingers around the throat, choking until the breath went shallow.

Dean’s voice was low and urgent in his ear—Dean, up and unhurt—and Castiel slackened his grip, because _he would not kill_ and this was a test, surely it was a test and they had set him up for—

The heartbeat slowed.

Castiel let go of the wrist, and the throat, and sat back on his knees, still with the torso of the person—of the woman—pinned between his knees. She was fading back into visibility: she was dying.

Her chest was crushed. A single blow, from the impact of his aching left wing. She had been dying since he had collided with her, and his restraint had been unnecessary.

The certainty and the fire simmered down a little, but didn’t leave him.

Castiel passed a bloodied hand over his eyes. There was a dizziness at the edges of his head but he was here, here and now, and he knew who he was.

He looked up into the urgency of Dean’s eyes. Then he reached for Dean’s hand, and dragged it down to the pulse of her throat.

Dean folded to his knees as easily as anything, pressed against Castiel’s front. Then he looked up, and met Castiel’s eyes, and shook his head.

“She’s gone, man. I can’t fix it.”

Castiel looked down at the woman—human, dark of skin, short red hair, middle-aged and dressed as anonymously as possible. Then he looked up at Dean, and quickly up past him to Virgil, whose hand was pressed firmly around the knife embedded in his shoulder.

“I apologise,” said Castiel. “I saw the danger, but I did not see—finding a precise target was difficult.”

“Yeah,” Dean breathed, and clapped a hand on Castiel’s knee. “Invisible assassins. Family fun times.” But his other hand was still pressed desperately over the unnatural hollow in the woman’s breastbone. She was coughing blood. It was a look that Castiel had seen on him before. There was always somebody, in war, that you couldn’t save.

Castiel studied his profile for a moment. This, he remembered. Castiel himself regretted the necessity of killing more than Dean did. But Dean regretted his inability to change the past, and to save everybody. Even the enemy.

Yes, Castiel remembered this. They worked well, against each other and with each other. Not just in fighting (and the fighting was so blessedly simple and clear). They leaned against each other, each one weak in similar ways but on opposite sides, so that when one had to struggle for breath the other could shore him up.

Castiel’s blood _sang_ with his certainty. The joy of doing and knowing and _being_ , and that wasn’t fair, was it? He hadn’t even decided yet, but everything in him had thrown himself into this decision even without that.

Fighting beside Dean, fighting for something like this. It brought him to life in a hundred ways, small and large.

Behind Castiel Balthazar landed, a familiar breeze on the edge of Castiel’s awareness. Castiel had almost forgotten him.

“Dean,” Castiel said, and closed a hand over Dean’s. The woman gasped and seized: beyond thought, beyond identity. Only reflexes left; and those would be gone soon. “Dean, let her go.”

Dean half scoffed. His eyes were scanning the body, desperate with self-mockery.

Castiel back-handed his shoulder. It couldn’t have hurt, but it startled Dean into looking up with a scowl.

Castiel jerked his thumb toward Virgil. Dean’s eyes darted in that direction and back, hunted and dark. He fixed on Castiel for a moment. Then his face settled into the easy mask of a smirk, and he said, “Guess you _saw right through her_ , huh?”

Balthazar scoffed. Castiel lifted an eyebrow, but said nothing. It wasn’t a _good_ bad joke, even by Dean’s standards, which meant that Dean was shaken and wanted to pretend not to be.

Dean squared his shoulders. And, after one more lingering moment he looked away from Castiel and stood up.

He was removing himself already. No: he had never wanted to let Castiel see into him. This was a closed-off wary Dean, nothing like the open anxious passion that had confronted Castiel in the library yesterday.

“Which of us was he aiming for?” snapped Virgil. “Did you see?”

“She. And not exactly.” Castiel sat back, still straddling the dying woman, and dug up a handful of clods from the soil beside him. He tossed them into the air, eyeing them with frustration—fickle subjects, irregular in shape and too clumped and his concentration was scattered‚ so they tumbled into meaningless patterns. “It was Dean I was thinking of when I saw the omens, but—”

Balthazar was there, his hands doing something at the woman’s head with a knife, and was she still breathing, was she even—

“Does this help?”

Dean’s voice was curt, professional. He was holding something out to Castiel, bloody from Virgil’s shoulder. Virgil was shaking himself, testing his newly healed muscles; and it was he, not Castiel, who focused on the weapon clearly enough to say, “Yes.”

Virgil could turn anything into a weapon—more literally than that phrase usually intended. He could pick up an orange and it might become a sword or a crossbow in his hand. Temporary, but long enough for most purposes. Castiel had seen him once turn a man’s own tunic into a shirt of nails, all pointing inward. But he was not usually that creative. He had his habits and preferences, and he was best known for his throwing knives, which he always made to a particular pattern.

“Like one of your knives,” said Castiel. “Anybody from around here would know it.”

“Congratulations, buddy,” said Dean to Virgil, and grinned. “You’ve been framed.”

Virgil gave him a deeply unimpressed look. “Somebody, or some people, are doing their best to sabotage the relationship between my lady and yours. Try to act with some dignity.”

“I’m dignified as shit,” retorted Dean cheerfully.

“Oh my fur and whiskers, I despair for the state of the realm,” said Balthazar to the sky with deep scorn. “Is that the best you can do? I hope the princess is going to have someone with a nasty cunning little mind around her, because you’re too bloody honourable by half.”

“Hey!”

“Framing _Virgil_? This paragon of inflexible virtue? Try to think a little bit beyond the tip of your nose, would you?”

“Balthazar,” began Castiel, but Dean had an odd look on his face.

“No,” he said, “you know what? He’s right. If Sammy were here, he’d look at...”

He stared down at the second knife on the ground by Castiel’s knee. Then he said. “Huh. Okay. So, smart money? Take the healer out first.” He jerked his thumb towards his own chest, then tilted it toward Virgil. “Then slit the swordsman’s throat while he’s trying to work out where the knife came from. Don’t leave him alive to deny it, make it look like we killed each other. Whatever story people settle on to explain it, whoever they say started the fight, you’re going to have a lot of bad blood and suspicions left behind.”

He looked up Castiel, half a question, not quite sure. And Castiel breathed out a soft realisation. Understanding. “Chaos,” he said.

Dean nodded, and his moment of uncertainty blossomed into a dark smile. Castiel understood.

“And leave the Duchess and the Princess poorly guarded,” grunted Virgil. “What can you find, Castiel?”

“Yeah,” said Dean, hard-edged behind it all. “I take that kinda thing personal, you know?”

Castiel could see Balthazar itching to correct the grammar. Instead, he looked at Castiel.

“This is the _life_ you’d choose,” he drawled.

No, he didn’t drawl it. He just said it. Castiel was so used to “drawl” being Balthazar’s default for every word that he’d assumed—

“Give me that,” Castiel said, and held out his hand for the hair that Balthazar had cut from the woman’s head.

Virgil was surveying the scene, and Castiel had some impression that Balthazar and Dean were sniping at each other, but he tuned it all out as he used the woman’s own hair to cast for information. Once, twice, three times; but the woman, her weapons, her clothing, all had been wiped clean of any information that he could deduce.

“Nothing,” he sighed. “Only a faint impression of _west_.”

“Narrows it down to more than half the country, then,” said Dean helpfully.

“I must find my lady,” said Virgil. “And other augurers: they might find something else. Come with me, Winchester. You two, stay here and watch the body.”

Castiel rose to his feet, feeling oddly heavy. Then hot pain dragged at his hip, pulling him off balance so that he staggered and almost fell.

“Whoa, hey.” Dean’s hands were on his shoulders and Dean’s face was close to his, warm and solid in a world that spun. Then Castiel was gathered in against Dean’s side so that Dean could lay a hand on his forehead.

“Shit,” said Dean. “You dumbarse, Cas, why didn’t you tell me she sliced you too? I thought all that blood was hers.”

“I forgot,” muttered Castiel irritably. There it was again, the soft-charged thrill of _Dean_ rushing through his blood, clearing his head a little and steadying his legs.

“Idiot,” growled Dean. “You’re gonna have to rest up, you lost too much blood.”

“I’m fine,” Castiel said, and stepped back. He was too, he realised: a little dizzy still, but that was nothing. There was a life and a purpose inside him that he hadn’t felt for a very long time. Perhaps it was selfish to take this chance if he wasn’t the best man for the job; but for once, Castiel felt reckless enough to be selfish.

“Go on, Dean,” he said; and he meant, _do your duty, and I’ll have your back._

Dean peered at him a moment longer, searching and somehow closed off. Then he nodded, told Balthazar not to let Castiel do anything stupid, and stepped gingerishly over the corpse to follow Virgil.

They were silent for a moment, in the company of the dead assassin. It was Balthazar who broke it.

“There’s that light in your eyes again, pet.”

Castiel looked at him. For a moment, he thought he glimpsed that trace of something sad, something bitter. Then, a little chuckle.

“Be sure to name me to your retinue, won’t you.”

“Balthazar. I haven’t decided yet.”

“Oh, I know.” His friend winked, and slung an arm around Castiel’s shoulders. “And I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”


	6. Chapter 6

This time, Castiel didn’t ghost around the public spaces hoping to catch a glimpse of Dean. He sought him out.

The fire had died to a hot glow by the time Dean came back to his quarters. Castiel, in the corner, was a shadow among shadows, and Dean didn’t see him at first. He shoved the door closed behind him with one boot heel and hovered there. A sigh, a hand run over his face, a slump of his posture like relief.

He thumbed the lock shut and shrugged the formal stole from his neck to a crumpled heap on the floor, and Castiel felt abruptly like an intruder.

He shifted, sat forward a little. The firelight caught the movement, warm on dark feathers. Dean spun, muscles bunching and hand on his knife. Then he scowled.

“Shit, Cas. Warn a guy.”

“I would,” said Castiel, without much in the way of inflection, “if a guy was not apparently intent on avoiding me.”

Dean snorted and stomped past Castiel, shoulders hunched up tight.

Castiel felt his feathers ruffle and rolled his own shoulders, forcing them to settle. He watched Dean’s back as he shed his outer layers, the light floating cape and the voluminous silk robe embroidered with the Princess’ sigils.

He wore linen underneath, cream and mossy green, of a wide weave and a loose cut that let him move and sweat easily. There were no buttons or laces: instead, tunic and thews were clinched with leather cords, wound around and around arms and legs here and there to bunch and hold the fabric in place. The linen hung loose between them, creased with the efforts of the day; but there was shape enough that Castiel could glimpse the firm lines of Dean’s body, the sway of his movements. And he could see that the tension was back.

“Door was locked,” said Dean. “How’d you get in here anyway?”

Dean knew he had his ways. It didn’t need a reply: it was only a deflection. Castiel watched Dean’s profile instead, intent on the eyes that Dean refused to offer. They were closed off, as if Dean was angry, but his mouth was strangely soft. The silence stretched, one minute then two, and Castiel waited.

He had his purpose.

Firelight curled warm and golden over Dean’s fingers as he unbuckled the bracers on his forearms: familiar beloved fingers, which drew Castiel’s eyes like a promise.

They fumbled. Then Dean dropped the bracers on the table.

“Seriously. What?”

“That’s what I’m trying to understand.”

“Cas. I’m wiped, okay? And I gotta be the big fancy ambassador tomorrow and unless you wanna let me in on something I don’t know what I’m going to have to be saying. I don’t have time for...” He waved a hand irritably, gesturing between Castiel and himself. “For whatever _this_ is.”

“Then tell me why you’ve been hiding.”

“Come on, man,” Dean growled. He peeled loose the linen where it had stuck to his skin below the leather, shook out his arms. “If you’re here to say you’re gonna turn us down you can save it, I’ll hear it tomorrow. And I’ll bow and ass-kiss and say the fancy words and I’ll go home and we can forget it ever happened, okay? Okay.”

“Oh,” said Castiel, quiet; and he sat back in his chair.

That, right there—that defensiveness. There was something important in it. And Castiel couldn’t quite read it, not yet, but it was a clue: a weak spot to press on.

This was _personal_ for Dean.

He considered. Then he stood, and moved across the room. And when Dean turned with a glass in his hand Castiel was there with the decanter, ready to pour.

Dean was taken aback, startled into a gruff “thanks”. They both watched the rich straw-yellow liquid slide into the glass between them.

“Has it occurred to you,” asked Castiel carefully, “that I only have a small part in this decision?”

Dean shrugged, restless, and took a swig.

“So far as I understand. Raphael and all other parties concerned are inclined to favour the proposal. For myself… there are many factors to consider.”

Dean gave no indication of understanding, no clue to his thoughts.

So much for hints. Castiel sighed noisily. “Dean. How can I know which is the wisest choice when you will hardly meet my eyes?”

That earned a full flinch, and Dean began to turn away. Castiel reached out and caught his chin, turned his head back. “I will be heard, Lord Consort.”

Wide green eyes, startled and expressive. Castiel knew again the delicious, terrifying swoop in his stomach from the years when he’d been between a boy and a man. Dean was looking at him—looking at _him_ —and he was seeing him.

Castiel’s hand spread out to cup Dean’s jaw. The throat bobbed under his touch.

“Three days ago,” he said, “an old friend—a dear friend, who means a great deal to me—sought me out before even changing his clothes or taking refreshment after a journey of three weeks. Now he treats me as an unwelcome stranger. I do not know what to think, Dean, so how can I know what to choose?”

“Dude.” Dean’s hand flew up before Castiel had finished speaking, curling over Castiel’s, then pulling back like it had betrayed him. “It’s not like—hell. Seriously? You want to know what’s going on in my head so badly why don’t you just fucking _scry_ me.”

The skin under Castiel’s hand was hot. Castiel narrowed his eyes at Dean, and took the hand back to count points on his fingers.

“Firstly, because that would be a gross violation and you know it. Secondly, because human emotion is a highly imprecise subject for divination. Thirdly, because even if I could tell what you feel that still would not tell me what you _think_ , about your own feelings and opinions, or what version of your thoughts you consciously acknowledge and which you wish to present to me. I know you’ve read Wodeius’ treatise on disentangling the layers of consciousness and selfhood in telepathy, and nowadays that is considered only a basic primer to the subject. I am a diviner, not a telepath, and—”

Dean looked up at the ceiling, shaking his head. “I know I told them you’re a proper scholar and all,” he said, and the corners of his eyes were crinkling, “but seriously, dude, you are such a fucking _scholar_.”

This time there was something warm about the silence. This time, Castiel let him look away.

He took Dean’s glass, finished it himself, and set it down beside the decanter. Then he took Dean’s forearm and turned it over, cradling it between his hands. Dean didn’t resist. He let Castiel valet him: unwind the cord from around his bicep and wind it into a small skein.

“Cas,” he said, and swallowed. “I just… I can’t be influencing you, okay? I told you that.”

“You told me that you missed me,” Castiel pointed out dryly. “That you want me to say yes.”

“Yeah, and that wasn’t okay. Look. This—it can’t be about me and you. It’s about the princess and the realm.”

Castiel paused in starting on the second arm and squinted at him, at the unhappy twist of his mouth.

Then:

“Bullshit,” he said.

Dean gaped. “The hell?”

“You think you would be _influencing_ me if you were to do anything but keep me at arm’s length? This is one of the closest and most sacred relationships that a person can undertake and it goes four ways, Dean. Whether or not the two of us have sex with each other, or with your brother, or even with _her_ , there will be a level of intimacy—a necessity for trust and mutual understanding—”

“You think I don’t know that?” protested Dean, all wide-eyed and pink. “Hell, I’m pretty damn sure she hates me and Sam already and we’re not even sworn in yet, and—”

It only took a touch: two fingers on his bare wrist, and Dean was turning toward him. Moving in harmony with Castiel’s body, despite everything, after everything; and that was the moment when Castiel knew that this could work.

Dean wanted him there. Whatever other tangles lay between them, Dean _wanted_ , and hadn’t let himself hope.

“If you and I already can’t stand to work with each other how,” Castiel said anyway, “can we uphold our oaths?”

And his certainty crept into his tone. Even as Dean startled at the question, mouth parting slightly like he just _had_ to protest, the question had already turned rhetorical. Castiel caught the look and tilted his head, half a smile. Dean saw it, saw _him_ , and then there they were together.

Dean returned the look, if not the smile. Then he dropped his eyes, and turned his hand over, and plucked at Castiel’s sleeve. Not evasion this time.

“I don’t wanna screw this up, Cas,” he muttered.

Castiel echoed words that he had spoken long ago: “Have a little faith, Dean.”

This time the eyeroll came with a smirk, bravado layered over a real if shaky warmth.

Their hands threaded together. Dean watched them, finger by finger. Castiel had to tug a little to get him to look up.

“Are you willing to try?”

“Dude.” Dean was a little breathless. “Did you miss the part where I rode all the way over here to ask you?”

Castiel raised a stern eyebrow at him. Dean swallowed, then smirked.

“Now there’s that pissy ‘gonna take it out of your arse tonight’ face I remember.”

It was Castiel’s turn to stare and blink away a sudden disconcerting swoop of lust—and Dean laughed outright at him, threw back his head and laughed, brilliant and joyous.

“Yes, you dumbarse. Yeah. I wanna try.”

“Alright.” Castiel nodded, trying to keep to task. “Alright. Thank you. That’s all I wanted to know.”

“It is, huh?” Dean was grinning now, distractingly beautiful, a flame who’d burn Castiel’s wings to dust, and he wound his fingers in the front of Castiel’s shirt like he was going to draw him in. “That mean it’s my turn to ask you about _your_ feelings, angel?”

All the cockiness was back, and in this mood Dean was capable of making Castiel very stupid.

“I,” said Castiel, “what? I assumed my feelings are—obvious.”

“Dude.” Dean gave him a gentle shake, and his eyes were still teasing but there was something else in there, something almost worried. “You’re, like, whatever the opposite of obvious is. Sometimes even when you’re right there it’s like you’re nowhere near me. You just… drift away, man.”

“I don’t mean to,” Castiel said, and he sounded petulant even to himself. “I assure you, Dean, that my feelings—were there no ladies and allegiances in the case I would choose you every time. Even when you do act like an arse.”

“Yeah?”

There was a foolish sort of a smile tugging at Dean’s face. Castiel couldn’t help ducking his head, worrying that the same smile was on his own.

“Yes, you… dumbarse.”

“Okay.” Dean’s fist grew heavier, swaying them in a bit toward each other. His other thumb was running back and forward over Castiel’s wrist. Castiel could feel eyes on his face, feel him leaning in a little, breathless, waiting.

“Okay,” Castiel repeated idiotically. Dean’s mouth was half-parted, a soft bow, a slight dampness just inside the lips. The tongue darted out for a moment, then back.

If they once started they wouldn’t be able to stop. And Dean… it was never wise to push him into too many emotional realisations in one day. But oh, it would be delicious.

Castiel squeezed Dean’s hand, toes shuffling in a little closer until foot knocked against foot.

Then he lifted his head, and bumped their noses together gently, and dropped Dean’s hand.

Dean closed his eyes tight for a moment, and sighed, and stepped back.

Castiel turned, and made for the door. His feet felt very heavy, like they had ideas of their own about where he should be spending the night.

Halfway there, he paused. Then he turned back.

Dean lifted his head at once, eyes bright and wary with hope.

“I should tell you,” said Castiel, “that I—people died because of decisions that I made, Dean. I cannot forgive myself for that. Until three days ago I thought that perhaps you and Sam might have been among them. I am not entirely sure that I am so fit a person for this role as you seem to think me.”

Dean opened his mouth, and closed it again. Then he pointed at Castiel accusingly.

“You practically agreed already, buddy. You’re not taking that back.”

“I’m not taking that back,” agreed Castiel obediently.

“Yeah, well.” Dean lifted his chin, and this time the fierceness in his eyes meant nothing but good for Castiel. “We’re all screw-ups, Cas. The things Sam has done—the things _I’ve_ done—the way I look at it, it’s not about deserving crap, okay? There’s a whole shit-storm of wrong coming and the world’s gonna be a mess if we don’t get in there now and do something. You, me, Sam, we’ll do that well. You don’t get to sit here and mope because something went wrong and people died on your watch, okay? You get out there and you make it better. You come back with me and we stop it.”

“Understood,” said Castiel. Everything inside of him was warm and singing.

Dean glared at him half-heartedly. “You’re laughing at me.”

“I’m not laughing at you,” said Castiel. “I’m… happy.”

“Well,” said Dean, and cleared his throat. “Well, good.”

“I’m still angry at you, you know.”

“Oh yeah? About anything in particular?”

“No. Not really.”

“… Okay?”

“I thought you should know.” Dean’s expression was puzzled but warm, and his eyes were laughing still. It was impossible not to respond to it. “Dean. We are all screw-ups, as you say. We are… messy. Some things I feel and think, there is no good reason for them. This won’t go smoothly.”

“Hey.” Dean’s grin was downright dirty now. “A bit of friction can be fun when you’re in the mood for it.”

Castiel rolled his eyes, and turned for the door.

“Cas?”

This time it was Dean who stopped him.

Castiel turned, and Dean hesitated, mouth opening once then closing like he was wavering on the edge of something great, something deep.

Castiel waited patiently: the patience of serenity, now, not the blankness that had been his for months.

At last Dean settled on: “I, uh. It’s good to see you again.”

And this time, this time Castiel _could_ hear everything underneath it. His heart danced and he felt the smile as it spread out over his face. For a moment he entertained the possibility of self-restraint. Then he covered the distance back to Dean in two strides and bunched his hands in the loose fabric of his tunic, delighting in the way Dean’s eyes flew wide and his breath stuttered. One hand, he lifted to Dean’s cheek, just to see the flutter of eyelids and the bob of his throat and the nervous flicker of his eyes.

“You too, Dean Winchester.”

It was the ceremonial kiss: two fingers laid over the pulse of life in the throat and mouths angled just so, touching together, almost closed for three seconds. Then a breath shared between them and another three, then a breath and three seconds again. And he revelled in the touch and the power of it. In the way Dean’s hands landed on his waist then trembled, before one of them remembered itself and flew up to return the touch to the throat. He revelled in the damp stutter of breath against his lips, the sheer aching feeling in every straining line of Dean’s body. And he revelled most of all in the promise that it made between them.

 _I don’t wanna screw this up_.

Because of course Dean would fear this. He would say that, and he would mean it, but as much as that he would mean _I don’t deserve for things to go right_.

Castiel was half-dazed when the third kiss was done; but not so much that he could not look at Dean with earnest blank-faced wonder and declare: “You _do_ want me.”

Dean mouthed wordlessly for a minute. Then his eyes went wide, like they always did when Castiel managed to put one over on him, and he dug his fingers into Castiel’s ribs.

“You little shit.”

Castiel laughed, so breathless it felt like a giggle, and kissed him full and open.

Dean groaned and fell into him: clutched at the back of his jacket then up to the base of his wings, scratching into the feathers and kneading at the sensitive muscles below, and Castiel slid his own hands down to press demandingly into the meat of Dean’s hips, until they were both panting and desperate.

Then Castiel dropped his forehead against Dean’s shoulder. Dean’s hand slid up to ruffle Castiel’s hair, and against the skin of his throat he growled, “Screw you, Cas.”

Castiel made a thoughtful noise and pressed one thigh forward just a little, so that the weight of Dean’s current predicament rode hotly against his own.

“Eventually,” he agreed hoarsely.

Dean positively whined and let his head fall back, gasping for breath.

“Not until tomorrow,” he said, trying for firm but rising a little at the end like a question.

Castiel hummed then kissed under his chin, nipped at the skin of his throat, smirking into it until Dean swore at him and shoved him off.

“You’re a fucking menace.”

Castiel laughed and pulled him back into a hug that felt like home and promise.

Then, “You will make mistakes, Dean. You will ‘screw up’.”

“... Wow, thanks buddy.”

“So will I, and Sam, and the Princess. Many times. But they will be errors of... of behaviour, judgement, action. Not of feeling. At its heart, Dean, this is about love. And I know no man so capable of that as you.”

“Fuck, Cas.” His cheeks reddened more, and his eyes skittered away. “You can’t say shit like that.”

“I can and I will, until you believe it.” Castiel squeezed his shoulder, and stepped back. “Until tomorrow, then.”

“Tomorrow.”

* * *

 

The ceremony took place out in the gardens.

Raphael laid the triple kiss on his mouth and said the words that released Castiel from her fealty, to go with love and honour. Then she reached out and tore from his forearm the sash dyed in her colours that was tied there for the occasion, and she threw it to the ground. Castiel knelt and said his own words, then he rose, and pulled another sash just the same from his belt, and threw that at her feet. Then he turned and walked over to Dean, in his person as the representative of Castiel’s new lady.

Dean reached out and took him by the hands, and kissed him in his turn. (And oh, there was a warmth and a promise there that hadn’t been in Raphael’s, though it was perfect in its ceremony.) Then Castiel knelt, and kissed Dean’s hand, and they both said the words that needed saying, and Dean raised him up, and put the Princess’ ring on his finger.

There were speeches, and presentations, and gifts from various parties to various others. And Castiel was paraded about and shown to people with all due decorum and gravity. He tolerated it, because it was necessary and important. But in the meantime he found space to lean in toward Dean’s ear and breathe, “You _will_ come to my rooms tonight,” in a voice that promised pleasure and punishment.

Dean’s blush was a beautiful thing.


	7. Epilogue

They took the journey back to the capital at an easy, cautious pace.

It took four weeks. They were a large party, after all: Dean’s retinue of fifteen, and Castiel’s of twelve, besides the beasts and their handlers, and the dozen or so traders and travellers who took the opportunity of so safe an escort to make the journey themselves.

At the centre of the caravan lumbered the pack beasts, the vast placid diprotodons twice and three times the height of a man. Their smaller cousins, half their size but just as stupid, with their fine long grey fur and big shovelling tusks, bore riders or other smaller burdens. The important members of the party rode [megaloceros](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Megaloceros), the elegant giant elks with their soft blinking eyes and their great shaggy dewlaps. They were swift of foot but expensive to keep, and they were cowards in battle. So, for the scouts and the other warriors or for when they might all have to fight, there were the [dromornis](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dromornis), the stocky flightless birds twice the height of any emu with their heavy shearing beaks and their powerfully muscled legs. And around and among them all milled the hounds, of both kinds: wary of the birds, uninterested in the diprotodons, and fiercely protective of their whole vast slow-moving pack.

It wasn’t safe. These were not safe lands, even if there had been no threats from rebel factions in hiding. No beasts were large enough to take on the whole company, but two of the traders were ambushed by a giant python and barely managed to get loose. They lost one hound to a [quinkana](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Quinkana), the terrestrial crocodile with long straight legs who could sprint like a goanna when it needed to. And two of the smaller pack beasts fell to—well, to _something_ that ambushed them at the billabong, and came stalking the edges of the encampment after dusk. Another younger hound lost her head and got too close to a big male kangaroo; and after seeing what those massive hind claws had done to her, the beastmaster ended her life at once.

But no people died, and they met no real enemy, and the days were long and easy. Dust and sweat got into everything, and thirst was a simple constant of life, and the sun was too bright; but life was good, and Castiel’s purpose was clear.

And then, of course, there was Dean: the thrill of his company, the way he looked at Castiel like he was a puzzle and a challenge and somebody worthy of love. Uncouth and warm, fiercely devoted, brash and so very easily embarrassed. Castiel had almost believed that he must have half-invented Dean in his memory, laying on the real man an impossible weight of idealisation. He had been almost sure that he was in love with a shadow. But now every day he found something that pulled him deeper. Sometimes it was a mannerism or a gesture, or something as superficial as the way he looked in the morning light when his hair was tousled and the red sun flushed his skin so that the freckles stood out against his cheek. Sometimes it was as deliciously partial as the way he came apart under Castiel’s hands and mouth, when they rested under the lingering midday sun. And other times it was a word, an action, a look, that revealed more of the man within. And that man... oaths or no, Castiel knew that Dean was worthy of the devotion of a lifetime, even if Dean would never believe it himself.

Even if Castiel wasn’t worthy of giving it.

It was a bright, windy day when they finally trod the last mile of the winding clifftop road toward the capital and saw its colourful spires scraping the horizons of sea and sky and sand.

Castiel had been here twice before, and never as a welcome guest. Now he was not only welcome but honoured. Pageants and parades, bugles and banners, tier upon tier of admirers along the roads as they made their way into the city itself.

The five thoroughfares cut straight in through the city back from the shore, dragging the sea air with them, cool and sweet. They met at the peak of Tower Hill, where the tallest and most gaudily painted of the spires soared up high over the Square of the Epitaph.

The first time Castiel had seen the capital, he had found it odd that a city inhabited mostly by pure-blood humans should place such emphasis on _height_ in its architecture, when the people of his own land, with so many of the original winged inhabitants and their mixed-race descendants, should live almost entirely underground.

On his second visit, he had decided that it was to do with the sea air. Even imprisoned, he had enjoyed the way the towers lifted him above the stagnation of ground level, brought him the cool of height and the breezes of the clouds, and gave him the illusion of flying. Perhaps they are envious, he had thought; and after all, back at home, we are surrounded by mountains. There is very little air movement, and no sea to cool the air we have.

Perhaps that was still true. But this time, it seemed to him both fascinating and natural that a nation who had come in from _outside_ , who had found this land inhabited by people who could soar, should build like this. It was a statement of power and of brilliance on the very edge of the world. It was a claim to the skies. For every person who built higher than his neighbour, it said, _I have more and better servants than you do, to navigate all these stairs._ And of course, the colours and ostentation were... _cultural_. Castiel could feel Balthazar at his side preparing a new arsenal of snide observations.

Castiel was fond of observing and analysing people in the abstract. It was the particulars of daily interactions that bewildered him.

And so he was confused for a minute or two when (pack beasts and traders abandoned) they rode into the Square and saw the official welcome party, in all its glory, with the monarch’s seat empty.

He glanced over at Dean. Dean’s face was schooled into passivity, but the jittering of his fingers against his thigh said _frustration._ And then—there, yes, there behind the throne, a little way back, there was Sam. Tall as ever, perhaps more muscled, or maybe it was just that he stood more easily in his own body and owned the scene with more assurance and happiness than Castiel remembered.

He wasn’t smiling, not quite. But he shared some look with Dean that Castiel couldn’t read, at this distance. Then his eyes found Castiel’s, and there was welcome and delight in them. And then he winked, and cocked his head ever so slightly toward the wall of the tower behind him.

And that was when Castiel understood the game.

At a quick glance, he could not see anybody back there who answered his idea of what the Princess might look like. But he had some idea of her character from Dean—and most of all, he knew her Talent. The Princess—the woman to whom the rest of Castiel’s life and all of his faith would be bound—she could shift her form so that she looked like any other person she knew, so long as she was touching them or something of value to them. The Princess could be anybody; and she had a sense of mischief.

Castiel and Dean dismounted, with their retinues behind them. They bowed to the Hand of the Princess— _Crowley_ , Castiel remembered him—who waved a bored hand and assessed Castiel with an almost intimate air, and he and Balthazar would either get along terrifyingly well or there would be a murder within a week. Words were said, as they always were—and then somebody was coming forward from behind the scene.

Castiel tuned Crowley out, and focussed on the woman.

... on the girl.

Well, of course, she wouldn’t be eighteen for another three weeks. And she had spent most of the past five years almost completely isolated from society. It stood to reason that she should look young.

But there was a gleam in her eyes, a vicious edge to her smile, and—no, this couldn’t be the Princess. Or she couldn’t be wearing her own form. Castiel _knew_ that the princess had the blood of his own ancestors. No matter the skin colour, blood of the land always ran true in this: everybody with even the smallest drop of indigenous blood in their veins had wings on their back. This girl was pure human.

She sauntered forward to stand in front of the throne, with the manner of somebody who knows that she commands every eye, every thought, amongst the thousands in front of her. Her hair was gold and chestnut and her dress was sumptuous: lace, and silk, and amber, and gold-grey softness falling down in layer upon layer over what must have been half her own body weight in petticoats. And her eyes were amber too: living open gold, fixed on Dean, mocking and translucent.

The speeches faltered into nothing. The crowd hushed.

Dean leaned in a bit toward Castiel. “Told you,” he murmured. “She’s kind of into showing off.”

Behind her shoulder, Sam barely managed to hide his eye roll, and stared at the sky.

Then the Princess tossed her head and hunched and wriggled her shoulders, and then— _there_ they were. Chestnut gold and white feathers, wings sprouting into existence, spreading out from her shoulders, vast and broad across the dais so that they hid everybody behind her. And Dean walked forward, to kneel at her feet.

Shapeshifting. But Castiel had never heard of anybody being able to shift only _part_ of their shape.

Her eyes fell on him: mocking, and challenging, and yet still somehow very young.

Castiel came up to her, eyes locked, and took Dean’s place as Dean fell back. He knelt, and felt her hand in his hair. Then he looked up, and took the hand, and kissed it.

“So you’re he,” she said, at a pitch for normal conversation—not enough to carry. Her mouth curled, and her eyes raked over him, weighing him up. “My boys pick them pretty,” she decided, and then she grinned like a shark. “Well, this should be fun.”

Castiel had to force his hackles down.

“My service and my love,” he said, and touched her hand to his forehead. “My lady Gabrielle.”

 

* * *

 

Destiny stirred, and shifted. Little trickles broke the banks of its sluggish old water course and began to carve new paths, flowing out to reshape the landscape.

The watcher withdrew, and shook itself. It was time to move.

**Author's Note:**

> And yes, if I do get around to writing the sequel, it'll be totally Team Free Love. But you know that.


End file.
